When
New Yorker Casey Phillips visits the tiny country of Moritania, she simply
wants to see where her ancestors came from. Instead, she's mistaken for a
princess.

The real princess has
been kidnapped, and Crown Prince Eric von Lieberhaven insists Casey—a dead
ringer for the missing royal—step into the princess's shoes until she can be
freed.

As Casey upends royal
tradition, Eric finds himself hoping the cheeky American never returns home.
But can a secretary from Brooklyn really find happiness with a prince?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And now for an excerpt!

Somewhere in the Alps, 1987

Twenty minutes later, Casey occupied a chair in the little
booth at the edge of Moritania while two officers dressed like the Pope's Swiss
Guards scuttled around trying to find new and different ways to make her more
comfortable. She assured them that there was only so much comfort one could
find at a border crossing. All she succeeded in doing was making them look more
miserable. But when she asked whether the American consul was coming, or even a
tow truck, all they did was exchange worried little glances.

Casey shrugged again, thinking that she was doing a lot of
that, and crossed her legs, resettling her wide denim skirt around her legs.
Not exactly climbing clothes. But then, Julie Andrews had done the Alps in a
habit.

"This is real Sound of Music country," she said,
not really expecting an answer by now. "Of course, you guys were probably
raised on Wagner and Romberg."

No answer.

"Romberg," she repeated. "You know, Student
Prince?"

"Cassandra, what on earth are you up to now?"

Casey lifted her head with a start at the sound of the new
voice. Then her mouth dropped open and her brain stalled. Now how had he snuck
up on her?

The guards were saluting now, and a new man stood in the
doorway. Man? More like a miracle. He was breathtaking, the kind of man she was
sure she had never in her life run into on the streets of Brooklyn. Clad in
precisely pressed gray flannel slacks, a hunter's jacket of tweed and leather
and a wool sweater over a snow-white shirt and navy blue tie, he looked more
like an English lord gone to tour his estate.

Tall, maybe six feet, and slim. Athletic. Casey could
imagine him on a polo pony or a yacht, the wind sweeping through his
golden-brown hair. He had a face that would have made Cary Grant cry: long,
with an aquiline nose, a strong chin and a well-bred brow. It was a cultured
face with eyes the color of a summer sky, although right now that summer sky
seemed a bit chilly. And it went with an actual English accent. In the Alps.

A most practical child, Casey had never been able to figure
how Cinderella could have been swept off her feet within the space of one
dance. If this guy had been the one wearing the tights, it would have made
perfect sense. She was in love before she even knew his name.

He turned briefly and dispatched the guards with a gentle
word. The relief on their features was palpable as they straightened and
departed.

"How did you do that?" Casey asked, getting to her
feet. "No matter what I did they kept checking out their toes. It's kind
of unnerving after awhile, ya know?"

Her guest considered her with evident frustration.
"When are you going to stop? You're not going to make them better subjects
by playing games with them. And you're certainly playing havoc with my
schedule."

"Thanks for the interest," Casey said, smiling
dryly. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"And where in heaven's name did you pick up that
atrocious accent?"

Casey was bristling now. "From my mother. She has one
just like it. Listen, my car broke down and I need a tow. And I forgot my
passport back at the hotel. Otherwise I wouldn't have had you paged. Are you
with the American embassy?"

He straightened a little, his head tilted at an angle of
inspection. "Cassandra..."

"Nobody's called me Cassandra since the nuns. Actually,
they called me Mary Cassandra, but...” She blinked, taken aback. “Wait. How did
you know my name?" She shook her head, the confusion mounting.
"Listen, I'll tell you what. If you're not with the embassy, just call me
a tow or whatever. If this is an example of Moritanian hospitality, I don't
think I want to visit after all. I'd have more fun in the Bronx on a Saturday
night."

Casey had more to say. Something about rudeness and insanity
and lack of oxygen at high altitudes. She never quite got it out. As she was
speaking, the gentleman's eyes widened with an incredulity that gave her pause.
His mouth opened and he stepped up to her. When he laid a hand under her chin
and lifted it, she fell mute.

His eyes caught hers and held them. His hand, graceful and
strong, stilled her. With just that contact, Casey found herself suffused with
a sweet hesitation she'd never known. A languid heat, as if his eyes were
stealing her strength. She looked up at him and forgot what she'd been about to
say and why it had been important. Hell, given a minute more and she'd forget
her name and birthday.

"Bloody hell," he breathed, his gaze suddenly
sharpening. His eyes swept her features, her attire, and then came back to rest
on her face. "You're not like her at all, are you? Not at all."

Casey couldn't seem to drag her eyes away. "I...
wouldn't know. Who?"

"Who are you?"

"Casey Phillips. Who are you?"

He actually opened his mouth and closed it once before
answering. "Eric von Lieberhaven."

Their voices had grown soft somehow, intimate in the little
room. It was Mr. Von Lieberhaven who broke the spell first, pulling his hand
away as if he'd been scalded. Casey saw him rub it against his leg in what she
was sure was an uncharacteristic gesture. She wasn't sure how she knew. She
just did.

"But why did they call you?" she asked when he
moved far enough away that she could breathe again. "You never told me. Do
you work for the American embassy? Or the English embassy?"

The smile he gave her was a bright one, rueful and wry. He
had beautiful white teeth and a pattern of crow's-feet from the sun and wind
that imbued his smiles with an endearing warmth. Casey smiled back without
knowing why.

"No," he assured her. "I am not with the
embassy."

That fancy British accent again. Not the kind you heard on
BBC. The real posh one, just a bit nasally. If he hadn't been standing right in
front of her, Casey would have tried to mimic it. It was the closest she'd been
to traveling to other countries before this.

What she really wanted, she realized, was to get to know
Eric von Whatever better. Fat chance, from the looks of him. He looked as if
he'd been afforded more in life than a flat and a high school education.

Outside the phone jangled, and one of the guards went to
answer it.

"Your Highness?"

Eric turned to him.

Casey gaped. "Your what?"

Copyright Eileen Dreyer

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

About the Author:

New York
Times bestselling, RWA Hall of Fame author Eileen Dreyer has published 31
romance novels in most genres, 8 medical­forensic suspenses, and 10 short
stories.

2015 sees
Eileen enjoying critical acclaim for her foray into historical romance, the
Drake’s Rakes series, which Eileen labels as Regency Romantic Adventure that
follows a group of Regency aristocrats who are willing to sacrifice everything
to keep their country safe. She is also working on her first non­fiction book,
TRAVELS WITH DAVE, about a journey she's been taking with a friend's ashes.

A retired
trauma nurse, Eileen lives in her native St. Louis with her husband, children,
and

large and
noisy Irish family, of which she is the reluctant matriarch. She has animals
but refuses to subject them to the limelight.